


Molecular Gastronomy

by NoPlastic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoPlastic/pseuds/NoPlastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has to decide whether to solve an interesting murder case or to attend a cooking course and make John happy. Or can he do both at the same time? Short Comedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The present

“Good morning, my love”, said John’s voice as his hand was touching the back of Sherlock’s neck. The microscope oculars, into which the detective had been staring all night, gave a small “squeak” sound as he removed his eyes from them. He turned around in his chair to face John and was immediately pulled into a kiss.  


“I’m sorry”, he said afterwards to avoid scolding. He knew he tasted like rubbish, his hair was in a mess and there were dark marks from the oculars around his eyes. But as always, John did not observe.  


“Sorry? What for?” he asked, patting Sherlock’s shoulder. “You didn’t even disturb my sleep this night, although you have been working all the time, as I see.”  
He pointed at the stage of the microscope and the slide with the dried red stain on it.  
“So nothing blew up this time?”  


“No, unfortunately not”, Sherlock replied, yawning. He decided not to tell John that he had actually slept through half the night, leaning onto the oculars, until the noises of John’s showering had woken him up.  
The experiment had failed either way. Distinguishing ketchup from tomato paste as an ingredient of noodle sauce had turned out to be extremely difficult. He would have to find a different way to prove that the victim had been murdered by her lover and not by her husband.  


“Coffee?” John asked unnecessarily as he walked over to the coffee machine. In a back room of his mind, Sherlock tried to figure out why it was eight o’clock already, as his watch said, and John was still wearing his dressing gown, the one that made him look like a model in an advertisement for cheap deodorant. Sherlock was quite sure it was neither Saturday nor Sunday, rather just the beginning of the week, and John should have to go to work. But sometimes he lost track of time when he was working hard on a case, so he could be wrong.  
“I won’t go to work until midday because of my overtime”, John explained while pouring two cups of coffee. With tired eyes Sherlock watched him stirring sugar into one of the cups and nothing into the other, which meant they had run out of milk again. Overtime? Yes, that made sense. It certainly sounded like something ordinary people had.  
“So we can spend some time together”, John went on, just as Sherlock’s confused and exhausted mind began to muse about whether John’s appearance in an advertisement would convince him to buy cheap deodorant. Probably not, but surely he would suddenly be spending a lot of time in front of the telly watching commercial breaks.  
“Can I help you with the case?”  


“No, you can’t”, Sherlock sighed, eagerly staring at the coffee mugs on the counter John was leaning against. “You’ve been out of it for too long because you were busy doing your boring job in the stupid …”  


Without waiting for him to finish the sentence, John turned his back on Sherlock, opened a drawer and started rummaging around in it.  
“Sherlock”, he said after he had apparently found what he had been looking for. Coughing awkwardly, he came back to the experiment table and waved a white paper thing through the air.  
“I have a present for you.”  


Sherlock’s microscope strained eyes took a while to adjust, but even when he could finally see clearly, the paper thing did not seem to make any sense to him. A present? Presents were usually wrapped in colourful fancy paper and ridiculous bows. This was only an envelope.  
“Why would you buy me a present? It’s not my birthday”, he said with an irritated frown. Had he missed something? Was today Christmas? No, he could not possibly have slept that long.  


“I don’t even know when your birthday is”, John admitted. “You never told me. And because of that …” – he waved the paper thing again – “… you are getting this today. It’s the third of March, the anniversary of the day we first met.”  


“Oh.”  


“Don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to have bought anything for me.”  
That would have been the least of Sherlock’s concerns, but he nodded anyway.  
“And it’s not from me only”, John continued. “We all thought you deserved a little thank-you gift after all the efforts you took to arrest the serial killer last month. I mean, you even tried to be polite to the witnesses!” He laughed. “So Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, some of the cops, Mike Stamford, Molly and I decided to get this for you because we thought you might like it.”  


Fighting his way through the fogs of the early morning that were clouding up his mind palace, Sherlock tried his luck at a deduction. A present people thought he might like. Many people involved – that meant John could not afford it alone. That meant it was expensive. Very expensive, but very small. Could be jewellery.  
“Is this a …?”  
He shook his head and quickly discarded the thought before the words could slip out. Wedding rings were never put into envelopes. Before he could make a complete fool out of himself with wrong deductions John would tease him endlessly about, he snatched the envelope out of his hand. It contained nothing but another small piece of paper. The address of a restaurant in Knightsbridge was written on it in ornate letters.  
 _“Dinner?”_  


“Yes, that’s the name of the restaurant. Molecular kitchen. It has to do with chemistry!”  


John smiled. Sherlock had no understanding of his obvious enthusiasm.  
“We go out for dinner almost every day, John”, he stated. “Unless you cook.”  


John’s smile grew wider.  
“Exactly! I’m tired of being the one who always has to cook. It’s time for you to learn some kitchen skills. You would only be bored by an ordinary cooking course, I thought, but not if there is some complicated organic chemistry involved. The Dinner’s chef, Mr Vallefiori, gives courses in molecular cooking. They cost a fortune, but I heard they’re worth it. He prefers to call it ‘experimental cuisine’ – now don’t tell me that doesn’t sound like something you do by accident every day anyhow.” He tapped the piece of paper. “This is the voucher. You are registered.”  


“But I can cook”, Sherlock complained. “I made dinner for us on New Year’s Day, for example. When you were too hungover to get up from the sofa.”  


“Oh, that.” John shuddered at the memory. “That stuff. It looked like marmalade, tasted like fish and smelled like rotten eggs. It made the whole flat stink. Which is especially helpful when you have a hangover, I can tell you. And that was sarcasm, in case you didn’t realise.”  


“Of course I did”, Sherlock snapped. “And the smell was not from the food. It came from the hydrogen sulphide experiment I had running on the other hob.”  


“Well, the only good thing about it was that my jacket still smelled of it the next morning and I had a lot of space on the tube.”  


Sherlock read the text on the voucher again and frowned.  
“Wednesday the fourth? But that is this week, isn’t it?”  


“Tomorrow, yes. It starts at 11 am.” John fetched the coffee mugs from the counter, pulled up another chair and sat down next to Sherlock. “It could be useful, you know? We’ve already had more than one case involving food ingredients and kitchen equipment, and it was a problem for you every time because you didn’t know enough about it. Reading books is not always sufficient. Some things require practical experience.”  


Rubbing his eyes, Sherlock accepted the cup of coffee John was holding out to him and drank a sip of it. The bittersweet taste and anticipation of a high dose of caffeine made the day immediately better.  
“I don’t have the time. I’m working on a case”, he said brusquely. This would put an end to the discussion. That being settled, he began to look forward to finishing his coffee and then going back to work.  
That was before he saw John’s reaction. His flatmate’s shoulders slumped, his eyelids dropped slightly and the corners of his mouth pointed downwards. Disappointment. Not good. Disappointment could result in unnecessary arguments that would cost a lot of Sherlock’s precious time.  
It might also have even worse consequences. The arguments could get out of hand and destroy their relationship. Horrible visions ghosted over Sherlock’s mental screen. John would stop praising him, would not want to work with him anymore and refuse to sleep in Sherlock’s bed. He might even start dating _girlfriends_ again. Sarah, Jeanette and the one with the nose … What if they came back?  
On a caffeine-induced quickstart, Sherlock’s mind started racing to find a solution to this problem. How could he make the corners of John’s mouth point upwards again and still prove to Lestrade that the police was wrong about the murderer?  
Within seconds, he developed an idea and congratulated himself on it being one of the best he had ever had.  


“Wait, the case is indeed not that interesting”, he proclaimed. That was a blatant lie. In fact, it was one of the most challenging he had come across in more than a month. But now, weaved into the new plans he had just developed, it would become even better.  
“I’ve almost solved it anyway, there’s just a tiny detail missing”, he declared excitedly, jumping up from his chair and nearly spilling his coffee.  
“Perhaps I can produce it until tomorrow at 11 am and provide Lestrade with the evidence he needs. If not, I might as well take a day off, as you suggested so many times, and get somebody else to solve it for me.”  


“Somebody else?” John asked in a sceptical tone.

Sherlock gave him a sly smirk.  
“You’ll see.”


	2. The solution

Sherlock spent the rest of the morning on the sofa with his laptop. Whenever John tried to approach him, he chased him off by shouting, “Leave me alone! I’m busy!” It worked perfectly. Within minutes, he had found the solution he had been looking for – the address of a certain shop southeast of Hyde Park. Afterwards, he did a thorough image search and sent an email to Molly Hooper marked URGENT! ANSWER AT ONCE WHEN OUT OF MORGUE!

At 11:45, John left for work, which was great because Sherlock had to make several phone calls John was not supposed to hear.

At 12:30, he was interrupted by his phone ringing. Reliable as always, Molly had apparently seized her midday break to read her email. “Sherlock Holmes … Yes, Molly, exactly. I need your assistance in solving a problem. Piccadilly, in front of Apsley House, this afternoon, 3 pm.”

[2:45 pm]  
It was a nice sunny spring day, sunny enough for Sherlock to take his scarf off and unbutton his coat. As every year in the warm season, he tried to get as much sunshine on his face as possible, to finally stop people from mocking him for being pale. He had never managed to get a tan before, and he doubted that it would be any better this year. He just did not have enough time for sunbathing, not to mention the changeable British weather. Perhaps he should try to talk John into taking him on a holiday in the Caribbean. Or grow a beard.

Five minutes later, Molly came walking out of Hyde Park Corner Station with her head hanging low. Shoulders slumped, eyelids lowered slightly, corners of mouth pointing downwards. Disappointment?

“Why do you look disappointed, Molly?”

“Oh, I … I don’t.” She blushed and fumbled on the zipper of her white and green patterned cardigan. “No, I’m happy for you, really. It’s just …”

Stuttering, hesitating, stuttering again … This was taking too long. “Let’s go, Molly”, Sherlock said, putting his hand on her back to manoeuvre her into the right direction. “We don’t have all day. John is coming back from work at about six o’ clock, and I’m planning to be at home then. Pretending to be working on a case that is already solved. Theoretically, at least.”

“So you’re preparing this as a surprise?” she asked as they walked along Piccadilly together.

“I would say so, yes.”

“Oh, nice!” she burst out. “I love surprises. For example, when I cut up somebody’s stomach and …”

“… discover that he has eaten something absolutely impossible”, Sherlock finished her sentence. “I agree. Those are the exciting ones. Especially when it has to do with a nice interesting murder.”

“Right! I knew you would understand.” She blushed again. “I always thought we were … that we should …”

“Here we are. The shop I told you about – JJJ’s. The owner owes me a favour. Come on.” He held the richly decorated glass door open for her so she could walk in and have a look at the glittering displays. He devoutly hoped this would save him from having to tolerate even more stuttering and blushing.

“Oh, what a beautiful couple the two of you are!” exclaimed the lady behind the counter. Twenty seconds and a few explaining words later, the expression on her face changed remarkably.

“So … weren’t you the one with the extremely exci… uh, horrifying robbery last year?” Molly said, breaking the awkward silence while Sherlock was busy deducing everything that had happened to the shop and its owner since he had last been there.

“Yes, yes, it was terrible”, the lady confirmed and nodded in Sherlock’s direction. “He saved my life. I am forever in his debt.”

“Exactly”, Sherlock emphasised. “That’s why we are here.”

[6 pm]  
When he heard the key turning in the door of 221b, Sherlock quickly resumed his place on the sofa and began to type another email, this time to Lestrade. He had already written, “On Thursday, the fifth of March, I invite you to …”, when John pushed the door to the flat open. The heavy shopping bags he was carrying seemed to pull his arms a good deal longer than they actually were. After the door had fallen shut behind him, he dropped the bags to the floor and leaned back against the wall with a heavy sigh. “Hello”, Sherlock said and clicked “send” for the email to Lestrade. He glanced over at John, who was staring at him with an expression that usually preceded an outburst of anger.

“Have you solved the case yet?”

“No. Still busy.”

“Listen, Sherlock”, he said angrily. “I know I’m probably asking too much, but … On our anniversary day, don’t you think you could spare some time for us to …”

Glancing up from the screen again, Sherlock saw John throw his hands up in a gesture of despair. Obviously he was lost for words. “Not now”, Sherlock growled. “And if I have to take any more stuttering and looking disappointed today, I will _explode”,_ he warned. “I am a consulting detective, for god’s sake, not Santa Claus. It’s not my job to make everyone happy all the bloody damn time. Get out and leave me alone!” he snapped.

John shook his head furiously and turned away. He sat down to eat alone in the kitchen and then went to bed early.  
When Sherlock followed him hours later, John was already fast asleep. That was good – a sleeping man could not argue. Careful not to wake him, Sherlock crept under the covers and contemplated how much he hated it that exciting days always had to be interrupted by boring _nights_ when it was dark and everybody was sleeping and there was nothing to do.  
Trying to occupy his mind by going back and forth through some books about quantum physics he had recently read, he began to drum a nervous rhythm of impatience with his fingers on the side of the bed.  
Unable to find sleep, he waited this way until 7:45 am, when John finally got up and went to work. As soon as he heard him slam the door shut, Sherlock practically jumped out of bed, set a ‘Guinness Book’-worthy record in quick shaving and getting dressed, stuffed a plain toast into his mouth (that would do for breakfast), put his shoes, coat and scarf on and dashed off.

 

 


	3. Organising

[8:15 am]  
Sherlock hated making appointments. People were always so stupid and slow in comprehending what he wanted them to do.  
“Ah, _come on._ Of course they will clear the hall”, he ranted while walking along Cumberland Gate towards Hyde Park, dangling a large carrier bag nonchalantly over his shoulder. Pushing his way through heavy traffic and hordes of pedestrians that were swarming around him like bees, he talked vigorously into his phone.  
“There’ll be policemen. Every good citizen will be willing to make room for the police. For god’s sake, what’s going on in your funny little brain? It can’t be so hard to get a room in London for a …”  
The man on the other end of the line kept complaining.  
“Until tomorrow, yes”, Sherlock huffed impatiently. “Idiot. Does my brother only hire fools to work for him?”  
More complaining.  
“Oh, so you usually work at the Palace. I see. No, that doesn’t make you any less idiotic. My flatmate and I are scheduled to …”

Being bombarded with a wide range of annoying questions over the phone, Sherlock failed to avoid another pedestrian and was pushed onto the street. A cab nearly crashed into him at full speed before he could jump back onto the pavement.  
The cabbie recognised him apparently.  
“Holmes, you bastard!” he yelled through the open side window. “Drunk as a rat at eight in the morning! I knew it!”  
Now the questions from the phone became even more exasperating.  
“No, I’m not drunk”, Sherlock hissed. “That was only the … Flatmate, yes. _Doctor_ Watson. Listen, just put me through to my brother, alright?”

A few minutes of silence followed. At least they had finally got rid of the unnerving on-hold music.  
“Hello, little brother”, a silky voice dripped like honey from the phone.

“Mycroft, what are those people doing? They’re slower than Scotland Yard.”

“Don’t worry, it will all be fine.”

“I’m beginning to doubt that.”

He cringed when Mycroft made one of his hateful tut-tut-tut-noises.  
“Be patient, Sherlock. I put my best people on it.”

 _“They_ are your best people? No wonder you always need my help to solve the difficult cases.”

He heard his brother snort and imagined how Mycroft was standing in his office, wiping sweat from his forehead and nervously rubbing his face.  
“What you are asking for, little brother, is … difficult to organise this quickly.”  
From the irritated tone, Sherlock concluded that he had once again succeeded in annoying Mycroft. He could not help but grin at that.  
“But as I said, it will all work out fine”, the thin honey voice continued. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”

“What?” Sherlock gasped while he was dodging a woman with a baby buggy. “I didn’t say you were invited.”

“Well, I _invited_ myself, so to say.” Annoyed, very annoyed. Clearly.

“But, Mycroft – what about the diet?” he teased.  
Silence.  
“Hello?” he tried again, but his brother had hung up.

[8:30 am]  
Still grinning, Sherlock leapt through the glass door of JJJ’s like a live jack-in-the-box with an extra dramatic coat swirl. The woman inside let out a panicked scream and crashed backwards into a display stand with earrings, causing a shower of glittering pieces of jewellery to rain on the floor.  
“Mr Holmes”, she panted while struggling to get back on her feet without slipping on the earrings. “You nearly scared me to death.”

“No need to apologise”, Sherlock replied generously. “I’m used to this kind of reaction.”  
He gave her what he believed to be his most charming smile. It did not seem to help much. When he approached the counter, the lady anxiously took a step back. He decided to change his expression to a threatening stare, which at least kept her from moving around. She froze as if nailed to the ground and winced as he leaned towards her.  
“Do you have everything ready?” he asked, tapping his fingers impatiently on the safety glass surface.

“Sure”, she whimpered. “I had Mr Douglas working all night. He was not happy, you know, but …”

“Well, I’m not Santa Claus.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, never mind. Now, do you have them or not?”

[8:50 am]  
When he had finally arrived in Knightsbridge, Sherlock still had about two hours of spare time to pass. After the long walk through the city, he decided it would be nice to find a bench to take a seat on.  
He looked around, only to see that all the benches in the vicinity were occupied by people blanketed with rags and old newspapers. Most of them were part of his homeless network. He greeted them in passing. They all waved back, smiling, and asked for money. Sherlock searched his right coat pocket for coins, dragged some out and gave them to a bearded old man who once had helped him tracking down a serial killer. Maybe he would need his help again in the future, so it was important to stay in favour with him.  
A girl with green dyed hair who had shown him the way to a hiding place for stolen goods a few weeks ago got the coins from his left coat pocket.  
When he met the woman with the colourful headscarf and the polite smile who had once saved him from being severely injured by a knife set as a trap under a bridge, he had no coins left and was forced to switch to ten pound notes.

Twenty-five minutes later, his pockets were nearly empty. The only money he had left was a fifty pound note and he had absolutely no intention to give it away … until he spotted Mrs Baxter and her daughter. The two of them lived in an Underground tunnel and went for a walk to Hyde Park every other day to get fresh air and beg some money.  
“Hello, Mr Holmes”, Mrs Baxter greeted as he walked towards them. The little girl was holding a plush toy in her hands, a very interesting white teddy bear.

“Wait”, Sherlock said and knelt down to look at it closely. He had not been wrong – this toy could be useful. Very useful.  
“Can I have it?” he asked, glancing up at Mrs Baxter as her daughter fiercely shook her head. The lady’s resulting frown caused him to rephrase his question.  
“How much do you want for it?” He produced the fifty pound note from his pocket. “Can I get it for this?”  
Upon seeing the money, Mrs Baxter became so generous that Sherlock did not only get the teddy bear but was also shown the way to the nearest unoccupied bench. She even saved the place for him as he went to get himself a coffee to go from a nearby bakery.  
“Thank you, Mrs Baxter”, he said, sat down and put his carrier bag, which now contained the bear, and the smaller shopping bag from JJJ’s next to his feet. The bench was a comfortable place to sit, especially after Mrs Baxter had finally managed to drag her daughter away and the no-I-want-my-teddy-back-screams abated.

Sitting in the sun and drinking coffee, Sherlock spent the rest of the time placing phone calls, giving orders and shouting at people, including a confectionist (once) and Mycroft (twice). It was great. Had he not set his phone to give an alarm at a quarter to eleven, he could have missed the beginning of the course over it.

 


	4. The course

[11 am]  
“Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes”, said the cook after introducing himself as Mr Vallefiori and led the way into the kitchen. It was a huge room with white tiled walls, overstuffed but thoroughly cleaned counters and glistening metal surfaces. Sherlock liked it immediately. It reminded him of the mortuary. Much to his joy he noticed that he was the course’s only participant.   
“I read Dr Watson’s blog”, Mr Vallefiori continued. “It is very entertaining. And your website, too.”

“You read my website?” Sherlock asked happily. “People rarely do that.”

“They’re missing out”, the cook said as he walked over to the counters. Pots and pans and other kitchenware were put up there, as well as a recipe collection and other equipment that looked like parts of a chemistry set.  Sherlock recognised an electric water bath, a digital pH metre and several grey cans which probably contained liquid nitrogen.  
“Tell me, what happened to the essay about tobacco ashes? It was pretty interesting.”

Inside, Sherlock was nearly bursting with pride over this comment, but he decided not to let it show. There was no time for small talk. He had an important request.  
“Listen, Mr Vallefiori”, he began. “I’m in a hurry. I have an appointment in quite exactly twenty-four hours and a lot of things to take care of until then. Can you just give me the basic facts about molecular cooking as quickly as possible?”

The cook was already busy wielding pots and spoons and adjusting the temperature and time settings of the water bath. Sherlock’s question made him pause and scratch his head.  
“As quickly as possible. Well, I can try”, he answered. “But even the basics are relatively complicated. First of all, there is …”

“You also have an appointment”, Sherlock interrupted him.   
Mr Vallefiori looked up from the temperature indicator and asked, “What?”

“If you have read my website, you already know my profession. I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world so far. I have never worked as a cook, at least not in a professional kitchen. Neither has Dr Watson. That’s why I need your help. You have to solve a case for me.”  
Mr Vallefiori listened with increasingly obvious disbelief while Sherlock explained everything to him.  
“… So you have to go to the restaurant, interview the employees and measure the time it takes them to make the meals, especially noodles with tomato sauce.”

The cook nodded slowly but seemed to have difficulties to understand what was asked of him.  
“Why don’t you just send the police there?”

“It would take them too long.  And as I said, I have an appointment in twenty-four hours – with the police, among others.”  
He reached into the carrier bag he had brought along and took out a police uniform and cap.  
“You can wear this”, he instructed. “And show them this.” He produced a card from his trouser pocket and held it out to the cook. Mr Vallefiori accepted everything and placed it on a free space on the counter. He gave the card a sceptical look.

“DI Lestrade?”

“Trust me, they won’t recognise you, even if they have seen you before. That is the art of disguise …”

“… knowing how to hide in plain sight!” Mr Vallefiori finished the sentence. Sherlock smiled to himself. Somehow he liked the man’s obvious non-stupidity.  
“So then, let’s get started. Hurry up”, he said and, to demonstrate his sympathy, added a polite “Please.”

“Fine”, the cook began. “But don’t expect it to go too fast. You’ll have to learn first how to use these things …” He pointed at the chemistry set stuff on the counter.

“I know how to deal with chemicals and lab equipment”, Sherlock reminded. Fortunately, the cook was intelligent enough to process that very quickly.

“Well, then let’s just proceed to the actual procedure of cooking. In the experimental cuisine, we make dry ice cream out of frozen carbon dioxide, for example. We create dishes which look like caviar but are in fact drops of flavoured liquids which have been released into a calcium bath through a syringe. The reverse process can be used to make larger jelly spheres that are more firm to the bite. The liquid is then a mixture of calcium gluconate and calcium lactate submerged in a bath of sodium alginate.”  
He paused as if to give Sherlock a chance to digest the information and catch up. Boring. Sherlock was already twenty steps ahead.  
“But first”, Mr Vallefiori went on, “you have to learn some basic facts about the physical and chemical properties of food and how they affect our perception of taste. Fat, for example, is a taste holder …”

“I already know”, Sherlock interrupted. “Skip that, please.”

The cook gaped and started to wave his hands aimlessly through the air, searching for words.  
“Um … uh … Alright, if you think so”, he stuttered. “Now, an auxiliary agent we often use is liquid nitrogen. It has the ability to cool down substances to ice within a …”

“Yes, I know what it is, thank you. Next lesson, please.”

“Er … You often need a water bath to keep the exact cooking temperature constant. The temperatures are given in the recipes and have to be followed strictly.” Mr Vallefiori made an emphasising gesture with his index finger. “Bear that in mind. _Strictly_ follow the temperatures given as well as the order in which to add the ingredients. Otherwise it will all end up in disaster. Also, please pay attention to the safety procedures with the chemicals and the nitrogen.”

“Safety procedures”, Sherlock mused. He was sure he had heard that expression before, but never in connection with anything interesting. “Well, fine. Go on.”

“We make the fuming ice cream from flavoured frozen carbon dioxide”, the cook explained, holding up an aluminium cylinder which apparently contained the gas. “That is achieved by …”

“I know how it works. Next lesson?”

Mr Vallefiori sighed and placed the cylinder back on the counter. Then he took up a bottle-shaped silver container with a plastic cap.  
“This is a cream dispenser. You have to charge it with one of these nitrous oxide cartridges.”  
He pointed at the tiny silver gas cartridges. “Depending on the result you want to achieve, it has to be either cooled down or warmed up before use. It turns liquid or gelatinised substances into foam. Look, like this.” After shaking the cream dispenser vigorously for several seconds, he pulled the lever on its cap. A small portion of white stuff came out and formed a fluffy little cloud on the surface of the counter. Sherlock took it up with his finger and put it into his mouth.

“Tastes like coconut.”

“Yes, you can create all sorts of different flavours. This foam is made out of coconut milk, sugar and gelatin powder. You’ll find it in the recipes.”

 “Fine. Next?”

The cook shrugged his shoulders and glanced at his watch. “That was it – the basic course. It’s been five minutes so far, so we have quite some time left. Do you want me to show you how …?”

“No, I think we’re finished”, Sherlock said with a dismissive gesture. “You can leave now and go to the restaurant. Be patient with the employees. I’ve been there before, they’re all stupid. Don’t take too long. Here is my number.” He handed him a piece of paper. “I expect your call until 7 pm.”

“But … the course normally takes about five hours”, Mr Vallefiori protested. “Your friends paid a lot of money for your registration.”

“Don’t worry”, Sherlock reassured him. “You will do something for your money. I need you to prove a point. Look, isn’t this a nice little conspiracy? You get to solve a fairly interesting case for me, and in turn you’ll allow me to take some of your equipment and ingredients home for cooking to prove that I’ve taken your boring little course.”  
He turned towards the counter and started to pack the cooking equipment into his carrier bag.

The cook said nothing for a while, then started to stutter out attempts of protest.  
“But … This isn’t … You can’t …”  
Sherlock’s sympathy for the man dropped to one on a scale of ten (which was still quite good, considering that the sympathy values for most people were below zero and the only persons with a value of ten were John and Mrs Hudson). He turned around to scowl at him.  
“N-n-normally”, Mr Vallefiori continued stuttering with an apologetic smile, “… normally I tell the amateurs, don’t try this at home …”

“I’m a professional”, Sherlock snapped.

The cook paused, apparently trying to gather himself.  
“Well”, he said then. “If that is the case, I’m fine with it.”  
This sudden reappearance of intelligence surprised Sherlock so much that he nearly dropped his by now rather heavy bag of kitchen equipment and immediately corrected the sympathy value to eight.

“Really?”

“You know, actually, I’m thankful for a little diversion”, said Mr Vallefiori. “I love my job, but sometimes I grow tired of the daily kitchen routine. So why should I not go to the other restaurant for you and play detective? And as long as you don’t destroy my equipment, you can borrow it, of course. Since you are a professional, as you just said, I’m sure I’ll get it back complete and undamaged, right?”  
Sherlock hardly heard the last part of the answer because he was busy wondering how it could be possible to grow tired of one’s job or the environment connected with it. Getting tired of Baker Street? Tired of the mortuary at St. Bart’s? Tired of John? He found it impossible to imagine. The question only confused him and took up unnecessary space. He pushed the thought into the bin area of his mind palace and pressed the practical “delete” button. Unfortunately, the ‘complete and undamaged’-part of the cook’s comment went with it.  
“Take the water bath”, Mr Vallefiori allowed with only a slight hint of defeat in his voice. “And the nitrogen …”

“I have enough liquid nitrogen at home, and a pH metre to measure the acidity as well”, Sherlock muttered irritably.  “Doesn’t everybody own one?” He quickly eyed the other remaining equipment on the counter to sort out what he would need.  
“I also don’t need the syringes”, he said. “I have loads of them, and if I ever run out of that kind of stuff, I can still take some from John’s doctor’s kit.”

“But surely you don’t have a distillery?”

“No, I could use that one”, Sherlock admitted. “Do you need it back afterwards?”

Mr Vallefiori frowned. “Yes, actually, I do.”  
He turned away from Sherlock and walked over to the cupboards on the other side of the room and opened some of them. They contained ingredients – fruit, vegetables, meat, chocolate, herbs and almost everything else one could imagine.  
“We have a theory”, he explained with a touch of pride, “that foods with similar molecular components always go well together. So it is possible to pair different flavours to create interesting taste experiences. Apples and olive oil, for example. But you will find enough information about this in my recipe collection. Now choose which ingredients you want to use for the meal you are going to make”, he suggested and winked. “What does your boyfriend like?”

Sherlock was stunned. “I did not mention that I have a boyfriend.”

A self-contented grin appeared on Mr Vallefiori’s face.  
“Well, that was easy to guess”, he said. “The blog Dr Watson writes about you on the internet clearly states that you’re not living with a girl. Then there is the tight schedule you were just talking about, and this. He pointed at the shopping bag from JJJ’s Sherlock was carrying under his arm.

“Oh”, the detective gaped. “You’re rather good.”

“Am I invited?”

Sherlock smirked. “We’ll see.”  
So what should he cook for dinner? With his eyes closed, he opened the doors to his mind palace and walked through to the room where he had stored images of all the edible things John liked.  
Cheese. Cheesecake. Chocolate. Coconut. Corned beef. Ice cream. Omelette. Pancake. Peanuts. Peas. Pizza. Popcorn. Salmon. Stuffed goose. Toast and …  
“Do you have strawberry jam flavour?”

“Well, not really”, Mr Vallefiori admitted. “But if you take pureed strawberries, mix them with jelly and add a lot of powdered sugar, that should taste about the same.”  
He took several packages of gelatin from a drawer and dropped it into Sherlock’s bag.  
“Gelatin is important, you’ll need it for all the recipes”, he explained. “So, where is this restaurant you want me to go to?”

“I’ll  explain that to you as soon as we get into your car.”

“In my car? How do you know that I have a car?”

“Oh, _please”,_ Sherlock said. “Of course you have one. Baker Street is on the way to the restaurant – well, almost. And you surely do not expect me to carry all this stuff home, do you? The water bath doesn’t even fit into the bag.”

To his surprise, Mr Vallefiori did not even oppose or argue against that. He just picked up the distillery and said, “Alright, then. Let’s go.”

This really was an extraordinary man. “I never thought I would say that to anyone except John, but it is a pleasure to work with you, Mr Vallefiori.”

“Thank you. That’s nice to hear. My assistants usually only complain. Oh, one more thing!” The cook walked back over to the cupboard that contained the ingredients. “Here, take the crystallised ginger. It goes very well with fruit salad and coconut.”

 


	5. Cooking

[11:50 am]  
Mr Vallefiori’s water bath looked nice next to Sherlock’s own digital pH metre in the kitchen of 221b. He was already thinking about an excuse for keeping it, or if the cook would notice at all if Sherlock did not give it back.

After he had placed a Bunsen burner on the kitchen counter in front of the distillery and all the other equipment, he seriously started to consider changing his opinion about cooking in general. Molecular cuisine could be an acceptable distraction for future phases of boredom. He could convince John and Mrs Hudson to buy him some books, to learn the laws of physics and chemistry behind the process of preparing meals – the influence of hydrophilic and hydrophobic molecules on taste, which role hydrogen bridge bonds played for the food’s texture and how amino acids created flavour during roasting.

Contentedly he inspected the shiny cartridges and instruments and the blinking digital temperature, time and acidity displays. This was going to be fun. It would turn the whole plain boring kitchen into a fascinating colourful laboratory. And John had been right – in terms of science, it would be fairly interesting and yield useful knowledge about the composition of food. That could clearly be of use for solving crimes in the future. Like the one with the ketchup, for example, if there had been no professional cook to solve it.

After taking off his jacket, folding it accurately and placing it on the table next to the microscope, Sherlock rolled up his shirt sleeves and began to read in Mr Vallefiori’s recipe collection. Cooling down the cream dispenser would take some time, so the dessert would have to be prepared first. ‘Put the cream dispenser in the fridge’, said the recipe.  
When Sherlock opened the door of the fridge to check if there was enough space in it, an avalanche of thumbs, feet, tongues and eyeballs rolled out and scattered all over the floor.  
So there was not enough space. Fine. No problem at all.  
He started to pace back and forth through the kitchen, careful not to step on the eyeballs, scratching his head. Ice, he thought eventually. That would solve the problem. There was enough ice.  
He quickly collected the precious body parts back together and put them back into the fridge. With the ice cubes he normally used to keep the thumbs fresh, he prepared a cold water bath in the sink. While the water was running, he started to put the rest of the cooking equipment into operation.

An ingredient he had forgotten to take from Mr Vallefiori’s collection was wine, he noticed. He would need it to season the sauce for the salmon. After a thorough search through the cupboards and shelves, he discovered a dusty bottle of white wine behind the rubbish bin. It had to have been a present somebody had given to him once, although he could not remember who and when. A bow was still attached to it, faded from red to light pink. Sherlock opened the bottle to check if the wine had turned to vinegar already, but the smell of it was only slightly sour. That could be due to the vintage. He put the bottle on the floor to have it out of the way and started to mix coconut milk with sugar in a measuring cup.

What had Mr Vallefiori told him about the principles of molecular kitchen? The rules in the recipes had to be followed strictly. The safety rules for the distillery and the nitrogen had to be respected. Rules, rules, rules. Boring reminders for ordinary people. Sherlock liked rules only when he could break them.

[1:40 pm]  
Where had Mrs Hudson put the fire extinguisher?  
Sherlock stood next to the kitchen table with his eyes closed, massaging his temples, trying to remember. The last time she had used one, had that been when the pig fat experiment had boiled over or when the incendiary killer had thrown a Molotov cocktail in through the bedroom window? He could not remember properly. The heat of the burning kitchen in his back was too distractive.

It had not been a very good idea to thicken the messed up gelatin with flour. Especially, to tear the flour package open right over the flame of the Bunsen burner had not been a very good idea. It was by far not the first flour dust explosion Sherlock had caused in his life, but certainly one of the most violent. All the cupboards and shelves had caught fire. The combustible chemicals on the experiment table were not making it very much better.

“MRS HUDSON!” he shouted for the fifth time. There was no reply. Had she gone out or had she only decided to ignore his calling once again?  
The smoke alarm went off, going BEEP-BEEP-BEEP in an unnervingly steady rhythm. The noise made the images he was going through in his mind flicker.  
Downstairs under the staircase? No, there was not enough space for a medium sized extinguisher. The drawer in the bedroom? No, that was where he kept his pants index, he would have known if there was anything else … or would he? Bloody stupid smoke alarm! Who needed it anyway? He gritted his teeth. Smoke began to tingle in his mouth and nose. He could not remember … black clouds in his mind … the extinguisher … where …  
“OH!” He clapped his hands together and tore his eyes open. Typical Mrs Hudson way of thinking, practical, logical.

The Bunsen burner exploded behind him with a resigned PUFF noise and sent a glittering cloud of dust cascading through the air as Sherlock was pacing his way through the sitting room. He opened a panel right next to the fireplace and triumphantly pulled out the extinguisher.  
Realising that it better be quick, he ran back into the kitchen. With a practised hand he put the fire extinguisher into action. He was familiar enough with it.

[2 pm]  
After shooting the smoke alarm, opening a window to get rid of the smoke and cleaning the kitchen counters as far as necessary of the fire extinguishing powder, Sherlock took a short inventory. The cooktops were still working. The cream dispenser was probably not at the right temperature anymore, but apparently undamaged. All the surfaces were too hot to be touched, but with oven gloves it would be feasible.  
He went to check the pH metre and the water bath. They were only slightly affected. He would have to move them to the sitting room because the sockets in the kitchen had melted, but there was no reason why he should not give the cooking another try. He even had one or two Bunsen burners in reserve. Somewhere.

The bottle of wine, which was still standing on the floor, had hardly been touched by the flames. When Sherlock picked it up and sniffed at it, he noticed not more than a faint smell of ashes. The wine would add a nice roasting flavour to the sauce. Or if it really turned out to be too bad for cooking, John would drink it.  
Just the thought of John brought a smile to Sherlock’s face again and convinced him that he still could make the best out of this day.  
This time, he would pay a little more attention to the rules. And if it still blew up again, there was always the possibility of getting something from the takeaway.

[2:40 pm]  
Mrs Hudson _had_ gone out. Fortunately. After a little side experiment with hydrogen had done exactly what it was supposed to do – it had exploded – the counters in the kitchen upstairs had definitely become too hot to handle. The oven gloves had turned out to be too obstructive for permanent use.

It was easy to find the spare key – it was taped to the wall behind the staircase at Mrs Hudson’s eye level – and break into the flat downstairs to continue cooking in her kitchen. It was not even technically a break-in because … because … fine, it _was_ a break-in. But of course Sherlock would be careful enough so that she would not even realise he had been there.  
In addition, this kitchen had the advantage of containing huge amounts of ingredients he could use to replace everything he had lost in the fire. That was great because he would not be able to do any shopping at the moment. He had spent all his cash on the homeless people and was pretty sure that John had taken the bank card.  
Mrs Hudson even had milk in her fridge. Sherlock poured himself a glass and let the creamy liquid cool his smoke sore throat before he set to work again.

[5:30 pm]  
For the last time, John locked the door to his office in the surgery behind himself and inhaled the smell of antiseptic solution and aggressive detergent. He greeted the cleaning woman and walked down the corridor, carefully balancing his briefcase and a stack of papers in his hands. These documents about his employment career were all he intended to take home with him. He had never kept many personal items in his office, so there had not been much to clear out.  
But where should he store the papers while he was in the pub with his friends tonight? After yesterday’s regrettable experience, he had no intention of going home. There was no need of any statistical tests to figure out that the probability to find Sherlock still sitting in front of his laptop, not having wasted a single thought on John’s present, was quite high. The old self-diagnosed sociopath presumably could not help behaving like that, but to see that he did not even bother to make an effort anymore was not exactly pleasant.  
Instead of going back to the flat, John was planning to invite Mike Stamford and Greg Lestrade over to his favourite pub. It was time for the two of them to be introduced to each other. He was sure they would get along well.

“Hi”, he said to Cynthia at the reception desk. “I would like to give these back.”  
He dangled the office and entrance door keys in front of her face. Her eyes went cross trying to focus them, and she giggled. She was a nice little blonde girl with huge blue eyes – the kind that John could have fallen in love with. She had flirted with him every day since he had started working at the surgery. Or rather, flirted _at_ him. Girlfriends were not his area anymore. As Greg would say: Not my division.

 “It’s such a pity you’re leaving us”, Cynthia said. “Please think about it. Do you really not want to work here anymore?”

“I’m sorry, Cynthia”, he replied with a regretful smile. “I liked it here, really, and I always enjoyed your company, but … I have found my dream job.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about it. You’re going to join a consulting team or something like that. I hope you’ll have colleagues as nice as the ones you had here.”

“I’ll only have one colleague.”

“Only one?” She looked puzzled.

“The only one in the world, in fact.”

“And, is he nice?”

John shook his head decidedly. “No. No, not at all.”

“Oh.”

“Sometimes I wonder how I manage to put up with him at all.”

“Oh, that’s bad.”

The text alert noise of John’s phone interrupted the conversation. He intricately produced it from his pocket, scattering half the stack of papers across the floor and the counter. Collecting them back together with the help of Cynthia, he read the text he had received.  
Then he paused to think. Utterly taken by surprise, he blinked, wiped the screen to make sure it was not just an optical illusion, and read again.

Have dinner with me.  
Baker Street.  
At once.  
SH

Could be dangerous, John thought to himself and chuckled. He decided to postpone calling Greg and Mike and at least pay a visit to the flat before he went to the pub. It was possible that the text meant the case was finally solved and that Sherlock had managed to chasten his temper to a bearable level. Perhaps even that he had gone to the cooking course and brought some leftover food home for dinner. There might even be a chance that John would get him to apologize for yesterday’s behaviour.

“What are you giggling about?” Cynthia asked, handing back the papers. “Come on, let’s just stuff these into your briefcase.”

“Thank you, Cynthia”, he replied, unzipped the briefcase and held it open. “I just got a text from my colleague.”

“The one who’s not nice?” she asked, shoving the paper stack into the briefcase.

“Yes. He really isn’t. But I l… uh, like him.” He zipped up his briefcase, shouldered it and turned to walk away. “Very much.”

“Good luck with him”, said Cynthia, waving. John beckoned back.

“Thank you, I think I’ll need it. Goodbye!”

 


	6. Dinner

[6 pm]  
The first alarming thing that struck John as he opened the door to 221b was the smell of smoke and cold ashes. That was nothing unusual in this house, although it normally was not that strong. The second, much more disturbing thing were the candles and the rose petals.  
Rose petals. He closed his eyes, counted slowly to ten and looked again. Rose petals. On the floor of 221b, scattered all the way up the stairs.  There were only two possible explanations for this: Either an experiment on gardening or botany had gone wrong and made a rose bush explode upstairs, or it had something to do with the film John had watched three weeks ago.

He remembered sitting in his chair late in the evening, sipping tea and watching a rather amusing romantic comedy that would not overwork his tired brain. Suddenly Sherlock had peered over his shoulder, squinting at the screen in confusion.  
‘Why are there rose petals on the floor?’  
‘It’s romantic’, John had answered. ‘People do that to make their relationships work.’

Another clue indicating that Sherlock had used the film for inspiration was the fact that there was a burning candle on each step of the stairs.  
“Damn you”, John murmured, gnashing his teeth. How many times had he lectured Sherlock about the rule that burning candles were never to be left unattended?  
Thoroughly extinguishing one tea light after the other, he made his way up the first five steps. He cringed again as he wondered where the petals came from and remembered the pretty bouquet of roses he had spotted in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen yesterday.  
On the sixth step, Sherlock had obviously had no tea lights left and put up lanterns instead. They were rather unlikely to set anything on fire, but it was better to be on the safe side, so he blew all of them out. He was not even mildly surprised to notice that the lanterns on the three uppermost stairs were grave side candles.

Upstairs, on the floor in front of the door to the flat, there was another ring of tea lights which absolutely had to be extinguished immediately. They were radiating so much heat that the fur of the teddy bear sitting in the middle of the circle was already beginning to frizzle and turn black. John knelt down, blew two of the candles out and then peered through the smoke at the teddy bear. It was a cheap looking little white thing, probably from a souvenir shop. In its paws, it was holding a heart-shaped Union Jack with small white letters printed on it. John picked the bear up and held it in front of his eyes to read.  
“Queen And Country”, said the letters on the heart.  
When he heard a thudding noise seconds later, he thought for a moment it was the sound of his heart breaking at the sight of the patriotic teddy bear, but then realised it had been the briefcase that had slipped away from under his arm. It had landed right on the four still burning candles.  
“Oh, sh…”  
Cursing and panting, he trampled on everything until the fire was out. When he picked up his briefcase afterwards, it was soaked with wax and singed. With a sigh, he let it fall to the floor again and left it there. The documents inside were probably ruined anyway. Sherlock would be the one to clean up this mess the next morning. Definitely.

In the darkness of the staircase, John allowed himself to hold the teddy to his cheek for a few moments. The plush toy was soft and helped steadying his nerves. It smelled a little funny, but that applied to almost everything in 221b, except for Sherlock who always smelled of expensive deodorant.  
John took a second to compose himself, prepared for the worst and opened the door to the flat, nervously digging his fingers into the bear’s fur.  
Something in the kitchen had been burned, he judged mostly by the smell. It was too dark to see how bad it really was. The only source of light was the flame of a Bunsen burner on the table in the middle of the sitting room.

During his time in Afghanistan, John had always dreamt of having candlelight dinners with a beautiful woman in the nice tidy dining room of a beach house in San Francisco.  
Now he was expected to dine in the messy sitting room of a flat in central London with a dirt covered mad detective, where a Bunsen burner was illuminating a table on which the dishes and place settings looked much like the remains of a blown up laboratory.  
Shrugging and with a resigned smile, he walked over to the table, took a seat in his chair, placed the teddy bear next to himself and decided that he preferred life this way.

Sherlock was sitting across from him and watching him expectantly. He looked as if he had just survived a bomb attack (again). His hair was sticking out in weird directions, partly burned, partly covered in flour and ashes. Soot and dust were smeared all over his face.  
Under all the black and grey dirt, highlighted by the orange glow of the Bunsen burner, the intelligent eyes were sparkling.  
“Good evening, John”, he purred.  
The shirt he was wearing was absolutely ruined. It was coated with fire extinguishing powder, and skin showed through where it was torn at the seams. The two top buttons were missing, offering a nice view of the transition from swan neck to marble coloured chest. Very nice indeed. Dirt covered _hot_ detective, John corrected himself.  
“Thank you for the present”, the deep voice continued. “I didn’t think I would enjoy it, but I did.”

“Yes, I can see that”, John remarked with an encompassing gesture to the destruction and chaos around.  
The detective smiled innocently, acting as if nothing unusual had happened. Which was quite right, John had to admit. “Well, anyways, thank you for this”, he said, holding up the teddy bear. “It’s … nice.”

Sherlock nodded emphatically. “I ran out of candles”, he explained then, pointing at the Bunsen burner.

John snorted. “Did you look up ‘romantic’ in an encyclopaedia?”

“No, on the internet.”

“Oh, sure”, John sighed. “I could have guessed that.” He took up his fork and lifted the glass of wine he had found next to his plate.  
“Cheers.”  
The wine was good and had only a slight aftertaste of ash and burned plastic. John would have preferred something stronger to build up his courage to try the indefinable stuff on his plate. But then again, what could be strong enough to prepare him for a dinner like this? High-proof methylated spirit?  
There were little sphere shaped things on the plate, in colours like red and yellow and pink. There was fried salmon, some green stuff looking almost like herbed butter, orange spaghetti, fuming purple ice blocks and seared mussels with something that could as well be bath foam. The only thing he could have named was the small amount of fruit salad next to the pink spheres.  
“What is this?” he asked, gesturing with his fork towards the most suspicious looking substance – the topping of the fruit salad.

“It’s exactly what it looks like.”

“No, I hope not.”

“It’s coconut foam. Melted a bit. Oh, and I just realised that I completely forgot to add the ginger.”

It took John three tries and the help of his fingers to get one of the pink spheres on his fork. The detective folded his hands under his chin and watched John’s efforts with a disconcertingly intent stare. Finally having managed to get the strange object between his teeth, John grimaced in expectance of a horrible experience and bit on it. It burst in his mouth and released an intense wave of the taste of … strawberry jam.  
“Yum”, he uttered, chewing on the remains of the gelatin shell. “Not bad.”  
After finishing the rest of the spheres, mixed with a little fruit salad which tasted much better than it looked, John’s eating was interrupted by the sound of the detective’s rummaging around in a plastic bag. John glanced up to see Sherlock reaching out over the table, holding a small casket in his hand.

“I have a present for you”, he repeated John’s words from the previous morning.  
“It’s supposed to put a smile on your face”, he explained, leaning over the table in an impatient attempt to force the casket into John’s hand.

“Wait, don’t worry, I’ll take it”, John said, quickly dropping his fork. “Stop, please, don’t lean into the Bunsen burner.”  
He took the casket and eyed it warily. It was light in weight, still warm from Sherlock’s hand and seemed to consist of cardboard. The dark-coloured fabric attached to it gave it a valuable appearance. A shop’s or designer’s name was written on it in silver letters.  
“JJJ’s? What’s that? Never heard of it.”  
The detective did not reply. John doubted that he had even heard the question. He seemed to be completely focused on watching for John’s reaction.  
“I hope this is not something that’s going to explode when I open it”, he joked, then held the casket next to his ear and shook it. A clatter of metal sounded.  
“Sherlock, I don’t wear jewel…”  
He was cut off by a phone ringing. Sherlock got up from his chair to search for it and found it in the pocket of his coat.

“Sherlock Holmes”, he answered the call while walking back to the dinner table.  
“Very good, Mr Vallefiori.” He slumped back into his chair with a wide grin. “I knew you would find out …”  
He listened for a few seconds to what the man on the other end of the line had to say and then added, “Would you still like join us tomorrow? You could cook for us and our guests. My brother’s _best people_ already hired a Chinese and an Italian cook, but I can fire them anytime. And my flatmate could use some enlightenment concerning tobacco ashes.”  
The reply seemed to please him. He grinned again. “Fine, see you then.”

“Who was that?” John asked.

“The cook, Mr Vallefiori. He just solved the wife murderer case for me.”

“What? How?”

“Stupid question”, Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. “It was obvious. The easiest solution. The chef of the Dinner has worked in professional kitchens long enough to be able to judge exactly how long which cooking process would take. I sent him to the restaurant where the victim last ate and he calculated the wife’s alibi to pieces. The timeline Lestrade proposed is impossible. She did not have tomato sauce with her noodles. It was not even necessary to prove that the poison was in the ketchup.”

John took another sip of his wine and paused for a few seconds to think through what Sherlock had told him.  
“So you didn’t take the course after all?” he finally asked.

“Of course I did”, Sherlock countered.

“I don’t believe you”, John said doubtfully. “The course started this morning at 11 am and was supposed to take a few hours. I have no idea how you convinced the poor cook afterwards to solve the case for you, but anyway, you still had to get home and probably do some shopping for the ingredients. Then you did god knows what in the kitchen, produced something more or less edible and ... And you still had to set the table and clear up the mess at least so that we could sit here …“ He furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Sorry, but that timeline is about as convincing as the murderer’s alibi. How long exactly did the course take?”

“Five minutes”, Sherlock said with a shrug.

“You finished a course of molecular cooking within _five minutes?”_

“Of course”, Sherlock replied innocently. “Look – how does the food taste?”

“The food.” Glancing down at the strange colourful stuff, John struggled for nice words. “It tastes … molecular.”

“See?”  
Once more, the conversation was interrupted by Sherlock’s phone ringing.  
“Lestrade! Yes, I was just about to call you. You were wrong about the victim’s final meal. It was not at the restaurant, she must have eaten something else afterwards.” He stopped, listened shortly, and then continued, “That means it was ketchup, right. Not tomato paste. You can arrest the lover now. What? Oh, tomorrow. Yes. Glad you’re coming. Don’t be late. And don’t bring too many of your stupid colleagues.”

“So it was that easy to solve the case?” John tried to resume the discussion after Sherlock had hung up. “Then what have you been doing all the time since yesterday morning? What took you so long to … Oh.” He had removed the lid of the casket while speaking and caught sight of its contents.  
“You have bought rings for us?” He felt his own eyes widen in disbelief.

“I’m waiting for your deduction, _colleague”,_ the detective grinned. _“_ But no stuttering and hesitating, please. My nerves are strained enough already.”

“We’re going to get married, obviously?” John asked softly, as if it was an illusion and one word said too loud could destroy it.

“Right. They call it civil partnership, as far as I know, but it’s legally almost the same, so …”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, 11 am.”

 _“Tomorrow?”_ John nearly dropped the rings. “Is that even possible?” He pointed emphatically at himself. _“I_ won’t run away, you know. We could as well do that next week or next month or so. Why tomorrow?”

“Why not?” The detective gave him a bewildered stare. “Solving crimes, chasing killers, working and living with _me,_ you still plan so far ahead?”

“You think that is too optimistic?”

“Probably. I prefer to have everything as fast as possible, so I made an appointment for tomorrow morning. It doesn’t go that quickly normally, but – Mycroft, you know.” He waved his hand in an indifferent gesture and winked. “If it fits into your schedule.”

“Of course”, John affirmed. “But does it fit into yours? Who knows what interesting crimes might turn up until then?”

“Well, concerning work”, Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. “As we are officially partners now, it is not only _my_ schedule anymore, but _ours._ We will take the time. Even in case of an emergency – the ceremony at the register office will not take much longer than five minutes. Exchange rings, sign a document, and that should be it. We can do that on the run if necessary.”  
Although he did not consider himself very romantic (maybe just a little more than Sherlock), the thought of this important event being reduced to a five minute procedure without anything special to it disappointed John. Somehow he had expected something more. He felt his shoulders slump and his head sink.  
“I mean, of course there will be a huge celebration afterwards”, he heard Sherlock’s voice add quickly. “With cake and champagne and all that. Mycroft pulled some strings and organised the party as if it was for the Queen. But I made everything clear with Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and the other guests. If the two of us are needed for a case that cannot wait, they would not mind celebrating without us.”

“Well, then let’s hope that doesn’t happen”, John murmured. He cringed at the thought of Greg Lestrade and his police fellows stuffing _his_ wedding cake into their mouths while he was out with Sherlock doing what should actually be the policemen’s job.

“And I thought perhaps you could book a honeymoon trip for us”, Sherlock mused aloud. “How about the Caribbean? There used to be pirates …”

“Wait, wait!” This was all going too fast for John to keep up. He shook his head, still unable to process what was happening.  
“I can’t believe it”, he said, glancing quickly at the rings again, just to check if they really existed.

“I still have one of those orange blankets stored somewhere, if you’re in …”

“No, no, I did not mean it like that”, John interrupted and cleared his throat. “Sorry for being slow, but – cake, champagne, inviting so many people – we cannot even afford that. Or have I missed something?”

Sherlock grimaced in response, as if it was one of the most stupid questions he had ever had the displeasure of answering.  
“No, but Mycroft can.”

John felt his eyes grow even wider.  
 _“He_ is paying?”

“Ah, eventually, it was a combination of people who owed me a favour and people who owed him a favour, so it’s not going to be all too expensive. Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper will be our witnesses, by the way.”

“Oh. Nice.” John felt more confused than ever. “And how am I going to get a suit until then?”

“A suit? Why should you wear a suit? You can just wear that”, the detective suggested, gesturing roughly at the doctor’s clothing.

“This?” John asked, tugging at the comfortable worn-out fabric of his jumper.

“Yes, of course. It will be most convenient for us to go there in our usual working clothes. So I am the only one who will have a problem.”

“What? What problem?”

Turning his head to the side, Sherlock nodded awkwardly towards the kitchen.  
“I burned my best jacket.” He scratched his head, whirling up a small cloud of dust and ash particles. “The microscope is damaged as well, but it should be easy to steal a new one from St. Bart’s.”

Instead of trying to catch up with Sherlock’s train of thought, John sipped his wine again. The aftertaste seemed to be stronger this time.  
“Just to get this right”, he thought aloud. “So you arranged all this within one single day, and didn’t even need me to try the rings on?”

“No. Remember how I determined Irene Adler’s measurements? It was the same simple trick, basically. I only needed Molly’s help to decide which design to choose. By the way, she said the marriage proposal was a great idea and might even help in case you wouldn’t like the taste of the food. Her facial expression was indicating disappointment, though, which I could not comprehend at all. Perhaps it was a misinterpretation on my part. Anyway, we agreed plain golden rings would be best. Since JJJ’s didn’t have what we originally wanted.”

To spare his nerves, John decided not to ask what that would have been. Rings with diamond skulls on them probably, or something like that.  
“Which one …” … is mine, he had wanted to ask, until he saw the tiny letters engraved on the insides of the rings – ‘Dr John Watson’ and ‘Sherlock Holmes’. Who would have thought the detective would be capable of something so … sentimental? With a sigh, he ran his finger over the smooth surface of the ring with Sherlock’s name on it and wiped a tear from his face.

“Does it make you happy?” Sherlock asked, apparently unsettled by the tears in John’s eyes. “Molly said it would.”

“It does”, John sobbed, desperately trying to recollect himself. “Very much, indeed. And to the question you didn’t even bother asking: Yes, I do.”  
Sherlock said nothing, but smiled and clapped his hands together as if he had won ten million pounds in the lottery.  
“Just one question, Sherlock: What would you have done if I had said no?”  
Now it was John’s turn to watch intently for the detective’s reaction. There was not much change in his facial expression, only a little agitation perhaps.

“As I said, the others would not mind celebrating without us”, he answered thoughtfully. “Or without any reason whatsoever. That was generally agreed.”

“And what about you?”

The question earned John nothing more than an unconcerned shrug.  
“I must say, I did not give much thought to that at all because the statistical probability of …”

“Thank you, thank you, spare me that.” John placed the open casket on the table next to the Bunsen burner, watched the flickering reflection of the flame on the golden metal, and smiled to himself.  
“But, Sherlock – “

“Yes?”

“Don’t get upset, but I’m glad that you won’t be the one to prepare the wedding meal.”  
Sherlock looked as if he was going to answer something but was cut off by Mrs Hudson’s voice from downstairs, crying, “SHERLOCK! What have you done to my bloody KITCHEN?”  
John stared at Sherlock for two or three seconds, blinked and then burst out laughing. Sherlock’s lips moved sideways to form a crooked smile. The detective lifted his own glass – it contained milk – and mimed drinking a toast to John.  
“Cheers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story was written after ideas by Harriet from the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum.
> 
> In contrast to almost everything else in the story, the restaurant “Dinner” in Knightsbridge really exists. It serves experimental cuisine dishes after recipes by Heston Blumenthal. The chef’s name is Mr Palmer-Watts. He does not give courses, as far as I know, but I have heard that the food is indeed very good.


End file.
